


punching in a dream (life tearing at the seams)

by possibilist



Category: Carmilla (Web Series)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-21
Updated: 2014-10-21
Packaged: 2018-02-22 02:19:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,276
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2490863
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/possibilist/pseuds/possibilist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>carmilla/laura drabble, somewhere between the Before and After of lives.</p>
            </blockquote>





	punching in a dream (life tearing at the seams)

punching in a dream (life tearing at the seams) . they watched men hurl from rock to sea/ like sternum to button, lined lip pinches in between —alt-j, ‘warm foothills’ / 1 . There are a lot of things you do to remind yourself that you aren’t dying, which is ironic, you know, because technically you already have died. It’s all a bit convoluted, really, but you aren’t a brooding philosophy major just for the aesthetics: the question of what life actually is has plagued you for literal centuries: you have so many Befores, and you aren’t sure of what an After actually is. Laura had finally untied you when you’d pretended to cry—maybe you had cried, but really, that much was an act, you swear—and now she’s at class for a few hours, and you don’t think it’s possible for you to actually be sore, but experience is all constructed, so your back hurts. You walk over to her bed and steal her pillow without much thought now—at first it had been to irk her; now you’re worried about how comforting her shampoo smells, how a yellow sham should never be that reassuring—but you’ve not felt safe in a long time, so you’ll take it: the nightmares happen every time. / 2 . Laura has the flu, and you’re pretty sure her fever is high enough to warrant a trip to the Student Health Center, but she squirms away in whiny protest when you try to tug the covers away. “Petulant child,” you mutter. “Bitch,” she says back, blindly reaching her hand behind her. You roll your eyes but you take it anyway, and she tugs. “I’m so hot,” she says. “You wish,” you say and she coughs a laugh as you settle in behind her. “God, you feel so good,” she says, then scoots further into you. If you could blush, you would, heavily. But she’s burning up, and she’d deliriously told you about balloon animals for about half an hour earlier, so you know she won’t remember this. Maybe that’s why you let yourself press your lips into the back of her neck. Maybe not. / 3 . It’s two days before winter holiday when she kisses you. You’re ignoring some insane ramble about American Horror Story because really? but then she spots the small, delicately wrapped box on her desk, and you catch her smile excitedly out of the corner of your eye. You continue to read, but you watch her too: when Laura opens the box to a tiny, sparkling diamond on a white gold chain—the pendant in the shape of something that certainly resembles a stake, which struck you as so funny you pushed aside your apprehension—she, of course, gasps dramatically and then turns to you. “This—Carmilla, I—this isn’t something a friend—this is too much.” You shrug and don’t look up from your book. You have an exorbitant amount of money that you don’t ever spend because most of the time, earthly possessions seem incredibly pointless. But Laura is, well— “Now my present is going to be terrible,” she laments, and you set your book down and laugh. “That’s your response to jewels?” She pouts. “C’mere,” you say, waving your hand. She hmphs over to you a few seconds later, dejectedly hands you the necklace. You turn her around and brush aside her hair, and you’ve been with more girls than you can count, but no one has ever been quite as magical as Laura, and you fight the—very uncool—urge to kiss her neck. You’re mortified that your hands shake so much when you’re trying to do the clasp so that it takes you two tries, but she doesn’t really seem to notice, and when she turns around you end up staring at her breasts instead of the necklace. She puts her fingers under your chin and says, “Eyes up here,” with an amused smile. You clear your throat and look away, but she shakes her head and puts her hand on your cheek, and then she’s kissing you. You desperately kiss back, and it’s so wonderful that you aren’t even embarrassed, not really, because Laura sighs and she tastes like hot chocolate, and her hands tangle in your hair without apology. Then you knock teeth with one another and you back up with a quiet laugh; your brain seems to have reset into German, so you riffle through a few languages until, “Are you okay?” She eyes you carefully. “I think I made up for my lack of a spectacular Christmas present, so yes, I’m doing great. Are you okay?” “Eh, I’m all right, I guess,” you say, and Laura looks legitimately concerned for a moment before she slaps your shoulder with a huff. You smile and she says, “I guess I’ll give you your, uh, other present,” and then she hands you quite possibly the ugliest pillowcase you’ve seen in your very long existence—bright yellow with rainbows and lime green stars all over it. Your face pulls into a grin on its own accord, and you laugh and kiss her again. / 4 . You’ve never been much a fan of spring—Laura traces patterns on your stomach while you read and then you mention, “I was murdered today.” Her breathing hitches and if you had a heart that still beat it would be hammering away, but then she says, “In context, even, that is the weirdest sentence I’ve ever heard anyone say.” It makes you laugh through this pathetic sniffle. She kisses your collarbone. “And I’ve heard some pretty weird sentences, so.” You shake your head and close your eyes for a moment. She says, “Your nightmares were worse last night—were they—is this why?” “Yeah,” you breathe out, and you feel her nod against your chest. “You don’t have to tell me what happened,” she says. “I wasn’t going to,” you quip—you weren’t, you don’t want to ever tell her that—but then you sigh and urge her up. “Can we go get some frozen yogurt or coffee or anything you want to eat or something?” “Are you—” she pauses and then sits up, studies you for a moment, and then says, “Normally I don’t allow myself these things, but I really would love some fries and a milkshake.” You kiss her in thanks, because you’re fluent in six languages but you don’t have words for your gratitude in this moment, and she brushes aside your hair and then tugs you by the hand out of bed. You share a milkshake with her purely for the posterity of it all, and she kisses your cheek, and there are blooms everywhere. / 5 . You’re a brooding philosophy major—again—for a reason: you’re not so sure where you stand between being alive and being dead, but she trails her hand down your stomach and husks, “I need a clear and verbal yes before I—” You roll your eyes and bite off a moan to say, “Yes,” emphatically and she smiles and then kisses you, and you bend down a bit more and let all of your skin slide against hers, and then she’s there, and she touches you gently but with purpose, and you’re something so close to pulsing. You have a few different PhDs under your belt, but you’ve never quite managed to have a satisfying dissertation yet, on life and death and all of your whelms and drownings and betweens. But you’re starting to think that there is a space for you somewhere in the middle of Before and After, and a lot of it has to do with Laura’s skin.


End file.
